An Exception To The Science Of Deduction
by AshMercedes23
Summary: When Mrs. Hudson finds a promising new occupant for 221C, Sherlock expects the average mundane person. She proves him otherwise, and as time passes he begins to draw the conclusion that she maybe an exception to the science of deduction. Sherlock/O.C.
1. Another Lady In The House

Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Those were few of many words Sherlock Holmes would use to describe the neighborhood outside of his flat at 221B Baker Street as he sat on his sofa in his 'thinking pose'. His hands were clasped together underneath his chin. He was bored out of his wits at the moment, and his flatmate was out buying groceries making the flat even more serene. He shared the flat with Dr. John H. Watson, an army doctor who recently returning from Afghanistan. Mrs. Hudson their landlady gave him a special discount on the flat, because he had won a way into her good graces by ensuring her husband's execution for a crime he committed in Florida. Yes, of course he wouldn't work on just _any_ case. No. He wouldn't the case for one couldn't be _boring_ yet most of them were not worthy of his time, him being the world's only consulting detective an occupation he made up for himself.

With a sigh, he stood up from the sofa out of his 'thinking pose' unclasping his palms and separating his fingers from each other. Approaching the window he picked up his violin from his stand, placing his chin on chinrest, he began playing striking the bow onto the stings strumming a tune. If only something _exciting _would occur so that could put an end to this _hateful_ tedious era of peace. He needed work. The work was all that mattered to him, without it his brain would rot. If only _somebody_ _out there_ could just commit a bloody crime that was _worth his time_ already. Placing back down his violin he grabbed his phone which was sitting on the stand, smirking slightly. Things weren't going to be quiet and dull for long with or without a case.

_BEEP! _ John Watson placed the loaf of bread he was holding back onto the shelf, heaving a deep sigh. He reached into his jacket pocket it was obvious who that text was from, he had spent the past two months at 221B Baker Street with nobody none other than Sherlock Holmes as his flatmate. Sherlock Holmes the world's only consulting detective rarely seemed to find enough cases that were _interesting_ enough to pique his interest, nineteen out of twenty cases were just too _boring_ for him. It only took him a moment to read the text Sherlock had recently sent to him. _John hand me, my revolver (12:00PM) SH_

He wanted to scream out loud in frustration, but that would only make him seem mad if he did so in the middle of a grocery store. Sherlock…was well being Sherlock as usual when he was bored he would take it out on random things such as the wall or start hazardous experiments. John knew he had to get back to the flat….and fast before he could do too much damage and demolish it all together. Not even bothering to answer the text, he pushed his cart quickly stepping onto the express line where the machines checked them out. He watched as the customers scanned each item, before the machine spit out their receipt, tapping his foot impatiently. _BEEP! _John groaned, before fumbling with his jacket pocket pulling out his phone. _Don't forget the milk (12:10PM) SH_

One of these days he was going to force the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes to shop for his _own_ groceries. "Would you please hurry up? It's your turn," growled the man with his basket of groceries behind him. "Alright, alright," replied John hastily. He scanned his items quickly; he had two more items left as he scanned the milk. The machine blinked flashing red light, before speaking in a mechanic monotone. _"Unexpected item in bagging area. Please try again." _John rolled his eyes, before scanning the item once more. _"Item not scanned. Please try again." _"Do you think you can keep your voice down," snapped John angrily. Over his shoulder he could see that the line had indeed grown, and the man behind him was glancing at his watch, tapping his foot impatiently.

After what seemed like an eternity all of the groceries were bagged, and John slid his card afterwards he entered his pin. Much to his annoyance the machine blinked red, before speaking loudly and clearly in its mechanic monotone once more. _"Card not authorized. Please use alternative method of payment_." "Yes! Alright! I've got it!" _"Card not authorized. Please use alternative method of payment."_ Throwing his hands up in the air he loathed these insufferable machines, roughly searching through his pockets he threw the exact amount onto the counter of the machine. "There keep it!" John grabbed the groceries…hoping he could make it back in time.

* * *

The door slammed shut. Sherlock did not bother to look up from his book. It had to be John. He listened quietly for a moment, but did not hear John's heavy dragging footsteps and cane. "Mrs. Hudson? Is that you! Have you brought lunch," he called, recognizing the clicking high heels of the landlady. Mrs. Hudson entered the room flustered as ever. "I'm not your housekeeper, dear! I'm your landlady," she shrieked shrilly. He peered up from his book, revealing a pair of vivid blue eyes. Using his skills of deduction he observed Mrs. Hudson using his keen senses, not leaving the tinniest detail unnoticed from her mousy brown to the purple heels she had on.

_Freshly laundered purples dress. Matching shoes. Hair combed neatly. No chemical fumes from cleaning supplies. Hands washed recently. No jewelry. Recently brewed tea. _"Expecting someone Mrs. Hudson? Did you get somebody interested in 221C," he asked casually, as if anybody could deduce this by merely glancing at her. "Sherlock! I don't have time for this! I'm expecting _her _any minute now," she huffed. "Ah yes of course we're expecting a female…you have no jewelry on," he stated plainly, before returning to his book. As he suspected the door bell rang. "Now, Sherlock don't scare the girl. She seems so nice, and it would be so nice to have another lady in the house," she reprimanded him. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes, crossing his legs. He certainly hoped she wasn't _boring_ it would certainly make things even duller around here when he had no ongoing cases.

Sherlock sat back in his favorite chair, closing his eyes resuming back to his 'thinking pose'. "Here let me help you with those," said a soft calm voice, which echoed through the hallway…it reminded him of wind chimes. "Thank you….thank you very much," came John's voice, sounding very much relieved. Sherlock smirked as he heard the rustling of bags, no doubt he was transferring some to the 'guest's' hand. "Lavinia, what about the flat," asked Mrs. Hudson, her footsteps following from behind. His mind raced for awhile going through his 'hard drive' processing the newly obtained information. _Lavinia pronounced la- VIN- e -ah. Latin origin. The name means mother of Romans._ Perhaps…she wasn't so boring after all, but this was only a mere speculation from her name which wasn't a very common one. "Oh yes, the flat. I'm still very interested Mrs. Hudson, I don't mind the damp," replied Lavinia in the same calm quiet manner.

"Just set the bags right there Lavinia, again thank you. If only _someone _could have helped me with the groceries," said John, raising his voice an octave as he got to the word 'someone', that 'someone' meaning Sherlock. "John be quiet….I'm busy," he murmured, ignoring the irritable tone in John's voice. "Busy? You, Sherlock Holmes busy? You haven't moved an inch since I left two hours ago for groceries," criticized John, who in Sherlock imagined was throwing his hands up in the air…no wait he didn't have to imagine he knew. "Will you boys _please_ settle down," urged Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock smirked, and shifted his weight against the sofa, uncrossing his left leg changing it to his right. "You sure took you time," he said acknowledging John. "I had a row with the machine!"

Sherlock smirked, no doubt amused. "You had a row with the machine?" John rolled his eyes. "Yes it sat there and I yelled abusive things at it!" Mrs. Hudson returned, with a tray of tea setting it down on the coffee table. "Ah tea, wonderful Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock, which was the best way he could phrase 'thank you'. "Young man when are you ever going to understand that I'm your landlady and not your housekeeper," sighed Mrs. Hudson, seating herself across from Lavinia. Opening his eyes, he could finally study their 'guest' to gain more information rather than having just a name. Lavinia was seated across from looking at him curiously no doubt wondering what was behind the scrutinizing gaze he was giving her.

She parted her lips slightly to speak, but he held a hand to stop her. "Yes, Lavinia I know…no need for tedious banalities." Cold blue eyes meet her hazel ones once more, which seemed to send an electric current through her body. John held his cup closely towards his mouth, preventing the hazard of spluttering tea all over the place. Closing his eyes he wished he could just telepathically tell the girl what he was itching to say. _Oh don't mind him Lavinia. Sherlock is just….being Sherlock. He's not a psychopath…if you told him that he would probably tell you to 'do your research'. It's not his fault he's a sociopath. Oi! It sounds just as terrible in my head as it would if I said it out loud. _

Sherlock offered John a sidelong glance, unclasping his hands out of his 'thinking pose'. He breathed deeply, still barely even acknowledging the presence of their _guest_. He turns over towards Mrs. Hudson, taking a muffin off of the platter. Gingerly taking a bite out of it, he places it back down. "Well, Mrs. Hudson I see no reason _not_ to take her interest in the flat seriously," states Sherlock finally. John allowed himself to breathe again, the tension in the room easing. _Impossible! He did not even spew a single comment that was awful…well as Molly would put it._ Nervously he glances over towards Lavinia, her composure still calm, her attention focused curiously on Sherlock. He swallowed hard, gulping down his tea so he wouldn't choke on it.

_BEEP!_ John glares at Sherlock the sudden piercing noise accelerating his heart, biting down his tongue to refrain himself from swearing. _Honestly Sherlock you are a man of many talents, but texting without being seen! Ugh! This better be appropriate._ He reaches into his pocket his phone midway exposed, but Sherlock extends his hand to stop him. "That's my phone John not yours," he smirks, no doubt still amused by the texts he sent to John earlier. Reaching into his own pocket, he procures a sleek jet black phone nearly identical John's. The bright screen radiates onto his face, his eyes moving quickly back and forth reading the text intently.

"Oh this is wonderful….brilliant! John we have a case!" Mrs. Hudson stands up, smiling tugging gently onto Lavinia's arm. Wordlessly Lavinia obliged, standing up as well. "Well dear, we better have a look at that flat. Be careful won't you Sherlock, I don't _fancy_ having your face plastered all over the papers…for all the _wrong_ reasons," she admonishes, but her tone gentle. Sherlock smirks, his chest no doubt puffing out with pride as his eyes dart over towards the latest headline. _Psychopath Or Genius?_ Walking towards the door, Sherlock ties his usual purple scarf around his neck. "Clearly they should be doing their research I'm a highly functioning sociopath. In my defense, I say I made a magnificent improvement to the _dull_ walls," he raves, slipping on his coat.

Mrs. Hudson remains speechless, her mouth partially hung open. On the wall as Sherlock so proudly hailed the way a painter would showing off their new masterpiece, was a spray painted yellow smiley face with scorched bullet holes. Letting out a hearty laugh, he closes the door behind him pulling John along. "Young man! You are still paying for that wall!" His voice still answers her, as he hollers from the stairs. "Back at six! Leftovers will do!" Lavinia struggles to stifle her laughter as Mrs. Hudson mumbled _'I'm your landlady not your housekeeper' _under her breath. "Come along dear, we'll see to that flat."

_**Well that concludes the first chapter. Of course Sherlock and all the other related characters do not belong to me, I just own Lavinia Crawford. This is my first Sherlock fan fiction and well I'm new to as well to this website . I'm not so sure where this is going. Any suggestions or comments are welcome. Cheers. :3 ~AshMercedes23**_


	2. Sherlock

"To be perfectly honest Lavinia, nobody fancies to rent this flat because of the damp," admitted Mrs. Hudson sheepishly. Lavinia observed the vacant flat, the only flaw she believed the flat had was the _dull_ dark painted walls. With a little brighter shade of paint on the walls it should make a pleasant accommodation for her. _Or maybe I can have that man disfigure my walls as well. He should get a kick out of that, always complaining of boredom. _ "I'm sure with a little redecorating, this flat should be comfortable," she assured the older woman with a smile.

Mrs. Hudson heaved a sigh, her high heels clicking behind her as she approached the window. Opening the window with unnecessary amount of force that would be used to pry a normal window, she let in some sunshine. "It would be wonderful to have another lady in the house, I have to be frank with you Sherlock is a _very difficult_ man to get along with. I was quite stunned that you stayed after your first encounter with him most would have left by now. If course if that doesn't work, he would try a more _convincing _approach. One poor bloke had to deal with the severed head in his fridge," she said delicately, a hint of fondness in her voice.

The ring of Lavinia's laughter echoed throughout the flat, a slight breeze wafted into the room as she did. Her presence seemed to make the flat more lively than it had ever been for who knows how long. As she was able to contain herself from her laughter, she cleared her throat before speaking. "I'm sure I'll be able to handle anything Sherlock throws at me, I've been through by far worse." This seemed to pique Mrs. Hudson as she stood up straighter, placing a hand on her waist mindful of her sore hip. "Didn't you say something about being a Detective Inspector's daughter?"

"He's retired I'm afraid, Edward Crawford. Unfortunately his time at Scotland Yard was _before_ Sherlock nevertheless I'm sure he's heard of his antics through the newspaper," she countered, looking out the window at the passing cars and cabs. "Are you and your father close? Surely to be this far from home," began Mrs. Hudson, her motherly instincts kicking in automatically…plenty of experience from Sherlock's antics. "I love my parents both very dearly, but nonetheless this was my father's suggestion. My younger sister, Elizabeth had always outshone me…in fact she just married recently," laughed Lavinia weakly.

"Congratulations," breathed Mrs. Hudson, bobbing her head slightly in acknowledgement. Lavinia only nodded, placing a hand onto her arm gooseflesh was beginning to form. Mrs. Hudson seemed to notice as she shivered, guiding her towards the door. "As much as you enjoy the damp Lavinia I'm afraid even you won't be able to tolerate this flat. If however you do decide to move in I'll be more than happy to have the ventilation fixed as well as the windows. Scrub the walls myself to be rid of the mold," she offered. "Well then Mrs. Hudson I'm afraid you'll have another occupant at Baker Street," grinned Lavinia, her hazel eyes glittering at the aspect.

* * *

"You mean to tell me Sherlock that you dragged me all the way out here to find a bloody kitten," roared John, his nostrils flaring as he threw his hands up in the air. He was creating a scene for the passing pedestrians on the quiet street, and much to Sherlock's amusement nearly poking a man in the eye with one of his fingers. "Yes John, we wouldn't want poor little Isabella to spend another night without her precious Mittens," pouted Sherlock, batting his eyelashes as he showed him a picture of an orange and striped Tabby Cat from his phone. "Ew will you quit that! Sherlock stop doing that," protested John, looking away. He knew Sherlock's act was merely due to sarcasm, but it was convincing nonetheless. Averting his attention to Speedy's Café he craved for one of their pastrami sandwiches rather than spending an entire afternoon searching the back allies of London. "No time for lunch John, _you_ better find that kitten," warned Sherlock, his voice raising an octave to refocus John to him.

"Me!" Sherlock smirked, stuffing his phone into his pocket walking away seating himself in front of one of the tables at Speedy's Café. Picking up the menu he ignored his friend's protests, and even up to point where John seated himself across from him. A waitress standing nearby noticed the presence of the two men, taking out a notepad from her apron she headed towards their table. "Good afternoon, I'm Abigail and I'll be your server today. Can I get you _anything_," she chirped with much unnecessary politeness, her body angled towards Sherlock. It didn't take the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes to notice what the girl was really after….even John could see what she meant by _anything_.

Sherlock did not bother to take another look at the menu closing it roughly he shoved it towards the waitress. "I'll have coffee, black two sugars," he said with no indifference. The waitress still paid no attention to John, her mouth partially parting due to shock nevertheless she recovered as quick as the blow came. " Black two sugars, hmm most of my customers have a _sweet tooth_. Tell me if there's anything else I can get you," she purred, batting her heavily coated mascara eyelashes. John clenched onto his cane tightly, Sherlock however picked up a nearby newspaper and began reading.

"Don't bother, we won't be eating in fact I think we should about just leave now Sherlock," growled John coldly, glaring at the waitress. "Oh! I'm sorry are you two _together_," she gasped. "No! Of course not," objected John almost immediately, his face turning red. _Oi! Why does everybody jump to that conclusion! I just don't fancy the fact searching ever bloody back alley in London to find a kitten while Sherlock sits his lazy arse in a bloody café! I could really care less if you're leering at Sherlock!_

Sherlock stifled a snicker, as he turned the page causing a disturbing rustling sound to muffle it. As the waitress left flustered, her black heels clicking behind her signaling her departure. "You know John, you'll never get another girlfriend if you behave that way," advised Sherlock, trying to regain his serious composure. "Why does everybody believe that we're an item," bickered John bitterly, stirring the attention of the other customers. "You are drawing quite the audience John, if I were you I would keep quiet. The only thing you are doing right now is making them believe that you're jealous," stated Sherlock dryly, flipping to another page.

He offered John a sidelong glance, jerking his head towards a man with his fingers glued to the keyboard of his cell phone rapidly typing. _Click! Click! Click! _"That one over there is texting about us right now." John ducked his head, as the man noticed that he was staring. "_Oi_!" As if on cue, their _friendly _waitress returned. Her blonde curls fluttered in the breeze as she knelt down to Sherlock's level, setting his coffee down. John covered his cough with his sleeve, the aroma of her perfume almost sickening. Abigail puckered her lips before speaking clearly her lips were even fuller and redder than before a new coat of lipstick no doubt. "Here's your coffee," she beamed, in a sickly sweet voice.

With a stiff nod, Sherlock accepted the coffee not bothering to tear his eyes away from the paper like most men would. Disappointed, she tucked a golden curl behind her ear before scurrying back inside. "Hopeless…you see John this is why I don't bother with women," said Sherlock without an ounce of sympathy in his voice, drawing the hot black liquid to his lips. John rolled his eyes, looking over towards another table where a burly man was taking a huge bite out of a pastrami sandwich.

_What does it take to get some service around here? Surely that waitress won't be coming back anytime soon…oh that looks so good. _John watched hungrily, drooling slightly as the red spicy sauce dripped from the man's double chin. _Can you eat anymore messier? I'm so close to snatching that from you, and eating it myself!_ With a shudder he casted away his attention from the other customers who were clearly enjoying their meals, he rejoined the conversation. "Oh! What about Lavinia Crawford you sure welcomed her warmly, in fact she was the first person I ever saw you being polite to." Sherlock's brow furrowed, taking another sip out of coffee. "Who?"

"Oh please! You don't think I would honestly believe that you've forgotten! We only saw the girl about ten minutes ago! Your memory exceeds that of an elephant's and you're trying to convince me you've forgotten already!" Draining the last contents of his cup, and wiping his mouth hastily with a napkin Sherlock finally looked up from the paper. "She's not important, a few minor details here and there nevertheless the average mundane person," he concluded. "Really, oh do tell enlighten me! Tell me Sherlock what _minor details_ you got from your brilliant deduction skills," huffed John, crossing his arms together.

"John perhaps you should eat something, you're always cranky when you are hungry," said Sherlock bluntly, hiding his smirk from his snide comment. John stared directly into those Sherlock's cold blue eyes, his own eyes twitching. His right hand gripped onto his cane for support, while his left crumpled up a napkin. "Fine! I'll go find that kitten with or without you!" As expected John got up, nearly knocking the chair over as he grabbed his coat from the backrest. Sherlock watched as he left, not bothering to stop him. He could make out the few words John uttered underneath his breath, something about a _filthy hypocrite_ or _contradictions_. He might have just lost his only entertainment nevertheless there was always that waitress.

* * *

Closing his eyes, clasping his hands underneath his chin he resumed his thinking pose. Delving deeper into his 'hard drive' he tried to reminisce his earlier encounter with Lavinia. _Her hair mahogany hair was curled, but of course it was unnatural. It wasn't burnt at the edges, but clearly she slept with hair curlers based on how the curls where angled in that one certain way. Clothing, simple dark washed skinny jeans and a striped dress shirt all buttons opened revealing a white laced tank top underneath. It gave off more of a feminine look rather than for a flirty manner. Her face was familiar…he had seen somebody with the likeness of her only it was a man. _

He recalled the rows of framed photos in Scotland Yard which he memorized from his many visits, were the portraits of those who died in service and those who had retired. _He was among the framed photos of the retired…._Sherlock's brow furrowed as he thought harder._ Detective Inspector Edward Crawford 1977-1997. Father and daughter had similar features, she had inherited his forehead area as well as the alert hazel eyes. Obvious signs of relation._

_Her stance also revealed her father's occupation…the same occupation she is aiming to pursue as well. Her stance was fully confident, standing tall at 5'6 her shoulders back stomach inward. She was slim nevertheless not merely skin and bones…her arms and legs were sturdy judging from the way she walked. Her strides long and effortless. _Reopening his eyes, he hoped John was satisfied that he had reviewed all that tedious information.

It was a waste of time and energy…not that he would admit that for the past five minutes he had been sitting there he _actually_ put some effort in reviewing his deductions. Waving the waitress over to pay the tab, he handed her the exact amount. "No change," he said with a forced smile. Getting up from his seat, he made his way around her stepping back onto the sidewalk. "Taxi," he shouted, lifting his arm to hail a cab. To his request, an Austin FX4 halted in front of him.

Lifting the handle, Sherlock knelt down seating himself inside the upholstered seat. "Where to," asked the Cabbie, in a business like monotone. "St. Bartholomew's Hospital." He mind as well entertain himself with a new body or body parts he would be able to attain all thanks to Molly, and with John out there looking for that kitten….._if there was ever a kitten to look for. Oh the look on John's face would be priceless after his whole entire afternoon squandered away in search of a missing cat that never existed. _Yes, he of course had plotted this scheme himself it was quite simple really.

He had merely set his phone to download the photo along with the name of the 'client' and address, and later on to be emailed to himself prior to John's return for the grocery store. The download conveniently lasted long enough for him gather all those deductions from their _guest._ Gazing out the window, he noticed the familiar three blocks away from St. Barts. Pulling out his phone he swiftly typed a new message. _How's the search coming along? Forwarded case details to you via email. Address included.(2:00) SH. _Satisfied, with a smirk he pocketed his phone eagerly waiting for a reply drumming his fingers against the handle of the cab door.

_**Annnd that concludes chapter two, I know this is starting off really slowly. Hopefully the next two chapters will sink us more into the whole aspect of Lavinia moving into 221C. I honestly also fancied the idea of Sherlock sending John on a wild goose chase for the sake of his amusement ;). I hope you guys didn't believe I would actually let Sherlock accept the 'case of a missing kitten'. As for the waitress...I had to add her in as well couldn't resist hehe now I seem so mean for torturing John(sorry to the fans of his who are reading). Sorry, now I'm just rambling(bad habit of mine), comments and suggestions are welcomed. I would love to hear some of your ideas on what you would like to see. Cheers. ~AshMercedes23**_


	3. A Highly Functioning Sociopath

_Beep!_ John swore under his breath as he reached into his pocket, taking out his phone which was blinking red in alert of a new text. _How's the searching coming along? Forwarded case details to you via email. Address included. (2:00) SH._ He rolled his eyes as he scrolled through his phone, typing in his passcode for his email, as expected his inbox contained one new email. It was marked Urgent_ Case! Details enclosed_…how very Sherlock. It took less than a minute for him to process the newly obtained information from the email he only had a name and address of the client to go by. _Isabella Crawley. 237 Devonshire Street._

Wiping his sweaty brow, he let out a sigh of Street was only a few blocks away fortunately for him regardless it would be best for him to check the local animal shelter first. The bell tinkered signaling his presence, and the attendant at the front desk looked up expectantly. In the male attendant's arms was a portly French Bulldog with stubby legs, its drool teetering from the brink of its jaw. "May I help you sir," he asked, his boredom clearly showing as his words came out in a drawl. John cleared his throat, coughing in his arm. "Err yes, I'm looking for a cat," he answered, his eyes already scanning the cages. _No…no sign of an orange striped Tabby cat. This place is crawling with animals…I don't fancy that dog's drool either. _The bulldog whimpered squirming in the attendant's arms, a mass amount of drool leaking from its mouth.

The man stepped away from the counter, bringing himself face to face with John. "Oh you're _one of those_. I don't see why people won't settle for a dog. Why don't you hold onto to him, while I bring out some cats…just what _type_ of cat are you interested in," he said, shoving the portly dog over to John. "I don't think that's a very good idea…I'm actually looking for-" The man seemed to ignore him, as he wiped off the drool from his sleeves, pushing the backdoor open muttering under his breath something about '_nasty creatures_'.

John tried to remain calm, trying not to focus on the warm puddles of drool that was spreading across his jacket sleeve. _They sure picked the right man in charge for this place._ The dog eagerly squirmed upward in hopes of getting a better look at the stranger, his front legs pawing John's coat whimpering as it did so. Before John could protest, it began thoroughly licking his face, thick slimy films of drool covering the entire surface of his face. "Oi!" He walked into the counter, his vision blurred wanting to get the animal off of him. The door banged open once more, the attendant returned. "Nope. No Tabby Cat unless you fancy a mix breed," he snapped. John fumbled with the pooch in his arms, handing it back to the man. "No thank you. You have a nice day," he mumbles clearly not enlightened by the service.

* * *

"Sherlock! You could have told me you were coming," gasped the mousy haired woman seated among the microscopes. She had nearly dropped the specimen she was about to place underneath the microscope, and she had to run these blood samples back by the end of the day. Clearly if she had dropped them it would have been disastrous, and much to Sherlock's amusement. "Molly, do you have anything for me? A body? Body parts? Anything you'll have I'll take. The past week has been ridiculously BORING," he ranted hastily, his voice boomed at the word boring. Her eyes widened at his sudden demands, but after all he was Sherlock she expected this from him nonetheless.

"I do have some…_spare_ parts, but Sherlock at this rate I can't give you parts at the rate you are demanding. People will notice soon," she cautioned with hysteria in her voice. "Please Molly," he repeated, empathizing on his request. She hated seeing him like this always roaming aimlessly around when he had no ongoing cases. Molly Hooper had secretly wished Sherlock would have stopped by St. Barts….but not like this. "Alright," she smiled, her lips drawing a thin lined smile. "Brilliant," he said flashing her favorite smile, seating himself in front of the other microscopes away from her. "Alright be right back….," she replied faltering with each word, as if afraid Sherlock would be gone when she returned. "Is that a new shade of lipstick? It suits you," he muttered, fixating his attention to the specimen underneath the microscope Molly was looking at.

Molly blushed feverishly, she knew he probably meant nothing by it and was just declaring his observations out loud….nevertheless it was coming out of his mouth. She turned the doorknob, turning to the left hallway. She shyly nodded at passing coworkers, taking her ID that was hanging from her neck she slide it in the security check. The machine whizzed before blinking green admitting her entrance. The room was dimly lit, and slightly chillier than the rest of the rooms in the hospital. Pulling one of the metal drawers opened, revealing a clothed covered dead body. "Terribly sorry," she murmured before wrapping up the parts Sherlock requested.

* * *

Lavinia bit down on her lips nervously, the sky had already darkened. The London nightlife glittered from her view of the window the multiple lights shone from cars and buildings. Occasionally a car beeped its horn, but she would not stir. She sat there waiting impatiently her eyes barely focused on the newspaper in front of her. Mrs. Hudson had ordered a fix up crew straight away, but it would be weeks before she would be able to reside in her new residence. The generous landlady offered that Sherlock and John would be fine with the fact if she stayed with them temporarily at 221B. She tried reasoning with Mrs. Hudson, but she merely just laughed shaking her head. _Oh the boys are rarely even home anyway my dear. No need to worry._

Lavinia jumped at the sound of the doorknob turning, and the muffled footsteps dragging across the hardwood floor. "_Oi! _Lavinia! You're still here," wheezed John, putting a hand on his chest recovering from shock. Lavinia shot up from her seat, approaching towards John helping him with his cane. "I am so sorry. I must have given you a fright. Mrs. Hudson…..hired and fix up crew for my flat, and she proposed that I stay here while my flat is being fixed. I couldn't possibly intrude but-" John held up a hand to stop her. "No no. Please stay. I insist. Don't mind Sherlock…no matter how rude he gets," he told her bitterly.

Shuffling towards the sofa, he allows himself to fall down into the cushioned seat. "Ow!" Her eyes widened, as she watched John wince as he whistled in pain. "I'm fine. I'm fine," he reassured her, motioning for her not to move. "I'll make you a cup of tea," she nodded, heading towards the small kitchen. John watched as she took out the kettle filling with water, before turning on the stove. "Where is Sherlock? How did your case go," she asked, wiping her hands on a towel as the kettle brewed. John huffed, crossing his arms across in chest. "Sherlock bloody Holmes….there was no case! He led me on a wild goose chase for a cat that never existed! Guess what happened when I got to the supposed owner's address! It was the home of a drunken man, who started throwing things at me! Couldn't understand half the things he said to me, but I don't want to know either!"

The kettle whistled fiercely as John finished his rant, getting back up Lavinia shut off the stove. Pouring a generous cup of tea, she places a teabag inside the cup. "How many sugars," she asked smiling. "Three….thank you Lavinia. Sherlock would never-" _BAM!_ The door kicked open, Sherlock clad in his usual black coat and purple scarf stormed in. Placing his packaged precious body parts down onto his table, he saw John seated on the sofa. "John! You're home! Didn't expect you to be this early," he commented, checking the clock on the fireplace mantle.

"You didn't expect me to be a home at all did you," accused John, throwing him a glare. "Whatever do you mean," contradicted Sherlock, seating himself down. A flash of familiar mahogany caught his eye. "Lavinia! What are you doing here aren't you suppose to be home at this late hour," questioned Sherlock. "Mrs. Hudson hired a fix up crew. Lavinia is moving to 221C. While her flat is being fixed, Mrs. Hudson and _I _insist she should stay with us at 221B," said John tersely, hoping the news would irritate Sherlock. "The more the merrier! Oh thank you Lavinia you made tea," he said with much unnecessary enthusiasm taking it from her. Drawing it near his lips he took a sip, seating himself back crossing his legs. "I take my coffee and tea with two sugars," he smirked knowingly at John.

"Speaking of moving. We need to arrange the sleeping arrangements. I most certainly won't have Lavinia sleeping on the couch would you John," he asked, taking some leftover cookies from the tray. "_Since when did you eat_," posed John through gritted teeth. "Starved," he smirked, shoving another cookie into his mouth. John's hand twitched on the arm of the sofa as he watched the consulting detective. In the past he had done rather idiotic things to cure his boredom….but this by far had crossed the line. "I suggest Lavinia take _your_ room. You can sleep on the sofa." Lavinia shook her head, raising a hand to protest. "No…I can't possibly," she protested eyeing John's cane thoughtfully. "Nonsense! No trouble at all Lavinia," said Sherlock raising his voice, keeping a wary eye on John.

John nodded stiffly, she could tell that if he was going to be cross he wouldn't be at her. "Very well then. Thank you gentlemen. I best retire now…it's been a long day," she yawned, shuffling over towards the rooms. "Second door to the left," shouted Sherlock, cupping his hand over his cheek to holler. John tapped his fingers impatiently against the arm of the sofa, listening intently as the footsteps died away. Once he heard the door close lightly, and the knob being locked shut he turned to Sherlock. "What was that about," he demanded in outrage. "I was just being hospitable to our guest," answered Sherlock bluntly with mock innocence.

"Hospitable! Sherlock Holmes the great consulting detective _hospitable _towards guests! You're not even hospitable to the paper boy who delivers your papers," he shouted in response. Sherlock lazily picked up the paper, crossing his legs he opens it. "He has tendencies of throwing them in the bushes. Besides I'm just trying to prove I'm not _spectacularly _arrogant even if it is in a _nice_ way." "Is that what this is about?Why you sent me squandering the streets of London looking for a cat that never existed? Going to a house with a drunken man hurling things at me!" "Oh John. That's the problem with you people. You see you just don't observe. For once in your life just think."

John narrowed his eyes as he studied the curly dark haired man. "You wouldn't let _just anybody_ stay here….," he began. Sherlock gave a curt nod, placing his hands underneath his chin in his thinking pose. Closing his eyes he urged his partner to continue. "Yes go on….that's a better start than I thought." "She has…she has to be a _benefit_ to you in some way. You're allowing this, because you can stand her. A person can never be too boring or too dim witted according to you. Not enough of the challenge for you," continued John, just about listing everything Sherlock could not tolerate. "Yes! Yes! Gah! You're reminding me of Anderson now! Enough about me! Focus John focus," he urged impatiently.

The seconds ticked by. Silence. Sherlock lowered the paper slightly, staring at John irritably. Cold blue eyes met warm brown ones. "She can get us cases John! Don't you see! She's the daughter of a retired Detective Inspector! She herself is training to become part of Scotland Yard! Good old Lestrade…she'll probably be in his division," he explained divulging all his observations and true intentions. It was John's turn to laugh now. "Are you sure those are your true intentions. Use and dispose of the girl when you're bored," he asked slyly. Sherlock lifted the paper back up. "Of course it is John. Highly functioning sociopath remember. I don't have _friends_," he reminded him, tossing the paper aside. Getting up, he retrieves the parcel of body parts off the table. "Now what are you up to," demanded John, not fancying a severed head in the fridge again. "Well. She doesn't have any cases to offer yet. So she won't be much use," Sherlock smirked, making his way down the hall. "Whatever you have in that box of yours. If you wish for her to stay I strongly advise you _not_ to use it on her," warned John. "Oh please John. Like you said she maybe an exception to the science of deduction," he laughed haughtily. When Anderson doesn't lower the IQ of the street and when Mrs. Hudson leaves Baker Street. As if that were to happen.

**_Sorry for the late update! Wow it's been almost a month, but writer's block has gotten to me. I tried making this chapter extra long. Still trying to decide Sherlock's prank on Lavinia ;) I don't have much experience in writing stories with crime/mystery to be honest. I mostly wrote Harry Potter fan future chapters will be better. It would be great to get some feedback/ opinions on what should happen next. I'm open for any ideas. Cheers! ~AshMercedes23 _**


	4. The Message On The Wall

Lestrade checked the time on his watch. 7:30 AM. A new record, Sherlock had outdone himself again. Drumming his fingers impatiently on the table, he watched as the forensics team cleared away from the consulting detective's kitchen. "False alarm Lestrade. Glad we cleaned the matter up," waved Sherlock, expecting the Detective Inspector to go on his merry way. "Sherlock," he warned, giving him a knowing glance. His eyes darted from the dark haired detective to the cereal box. Scotland Yard had received a call earlier about fingers being discovered in a cereal box. "I say you arrest him for being a public menace. What type of psychopath puts fingers in a cereal box! It's seven in the morning! What type of _sick-_"

"Enough Anderson," barked Lestrade, holding up a hand to stop him. The shrill ring of the phone perverted the argument that was heating up. Holding up his index finger, the Detective Inspector excuses himself out of the room. "This is a complete waste of time. Lavinia I don't understand how you could get mixed up with this _lot_. He's a bloody psychopath, I suggest if you want to remain in this division you stay away from him," grumbled Anderson with a sour note. Sherlock closed his eyes nothing bothering to correct him, and remained seated in his armchair. "No need to lower the IQ of the whole street Anderson. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that _nobody_ in this room is interested in what you have to say," he mumbled, but enough to be audible.

The forensic expert's nostrils flared, clenching a fist. "And I do recall the last time I checked….that this is _my_ flat. See yourself _out_," Sherlock added dryly, approaching his violin stand. "You," growled Anderson, beginning to approach the man he deemed a psychopath. Much to John's relief who was sitting at the kitchen table with his face hidden behind his palms, Lestrade returned. "Enough! Anderson! I just got a call, we got a homicide!" He stopped midway, turning himself back around straightening his jacket. Sherlock turned around, appearing to show half interest. "No! Freak! Who said you were invited! I don't need my crime scene contaminated," he bellowed, appearing quite deranged.

"Lavinia…._Sherlock_ I want you to have a look at this," he acknowledged them with curt nods, ignoring the protests from Anderson. "Marvelous," simpered Sherlock, tossing on his usual dark overcoat. Lavinia nodded obediently, still not speaking clipping on the new glistening badge on her belt. Approaching the closed door, it swung open before Lestrade had a chance to pull the knob. "Oh good lord! Detective Inspector Lestrade! What a pleasant surprise! You should have told me you were coming I would have made tea," exclaimed Mrs. Hudson in alarm. "Yes, tea….accompanied with a nice plate of severed fingers," added John with cynicism, giving Sherlock a piercing glare. "Fingers?" Mrs. Hudson didn't seemed even slightly astonished….after all there was once a severed head in the fridge.

Sherlock headed for the door, not wanting to answer all these questions being asked. Lavinia followed behind along with the rest of the party, leaving Mrs. Hudson behind. As the door closed behind them she surveyed the room with a hawk's eye. The consulting detective's flat as usual gave a person an impression a tornado hit it. The only part of the living room that was tidy was the desk where John kept and worked on his laptop. Approaching the table, she noticed how they haven't even eaten breakfast before they left. The unclosed cereal box caught her eye. "Sherlock the mess you've made," she whimpered, peering inside the cereal box with disdain.

* * *

"Does he always ride alone," questioned Lavinia, who was sitting beside Lestrade who was driving. "He always takes a cab," he answered automatically. Making a right turn, he parks the car in front of a house marked with yellow police tape. "This is your first crime scene, but I'm sure you'll do admirably. After your father of course," he smiled weakly, remembering his own mentor. Approaching the detective on guard, Lestrade gives him a wave and nod before entering. Holding up the tape, Lavinia ducks down following his lead to the crime scene. The forensic team was already feverishly at work, snapping photo after photo of the crime scene.

"Samuel Hastings-", Anderson began. "Anderson, don't even bother. Turn around, you're throwing me off." Sherlock stood by the doorway, approaching the body. Anderson turned around crossing his arms not even bothering to protest, but his body language spoke otherwise. Lavinia watched as he knelt down beside the corpse, scrutinizing at every little detail. After several minutes of complete silence, Sherlock stood up again. "Was the body moved," he asked stiffly. "No, of course not we left it the way it was," snapped Anderson. "Thank you for your input," boomed Sherlock tersely, the question was clearly for somebody _other_ than Anderson.

Anderson walked a few steps forward, firmly planting his feet to the ground. With his head held up high, he began to speak with a tone of defiance. _He's going to listen to me whether he likes it or not. Consulting Detective indeed._ "We still can't find the cause of death. There is no wound on the victim or any blood. No strangulation marks. The only other way the victim could have died was-" "Poison. Yes, yes I _know_. I'm sure if I asked one of your canine friends they could have deduced the same for me," replied Sherlock hastily, his piercing blue eyes intensely boring into Anderson's. Lavinia stood between the two men, pointing at the corpse of Samuel Hastings.

"His left shoe is not even properly one while his right shoe is," she said, bending over pulling on the latex gloves. Lavinia gave a firm tug, freeing the foot from the shoe. Taking off the sock she observed the man's left foot. "There's a tiny bruising between these two toes," she indicated, pulling the corpse's leg to show the men. Sherlock bent down beside her, taking out his pocket magnifying glass. "Death by injection," he stated bluntly. John leaned over, showing slight interest. "If you do an autopsy….it could appear that this man had a heart attack," he murmured in agreement, using his knowledge of medicine.

"Of course the murderer was hoping to get away with thinking that this was an attempt of suicide. Samuel Hasting after all has been going through depression. Clearly the recent divorce isn't sitting with him, he still wears his wedding band it's the only thing _clean_ on his person. He hasn't been paying attention to his appearance. Hair uncombed, nails untrimmed, hasn't been eating much either signs of malnutrition are apparent on his face, dark circles under his eyes hasn't been sleeping he stays up at night crying himself to sleep, and judging by those tiny pinch marks on his fingers. Scars from burns he recently received…too small to be a cigarette…he's been smoking cigars he's taken the habit of smoking," asserted Sherlock his voice easily moving on with each deduction.

"So you're saying that the murderer killed him out of mercy," questioned Lestrade, who was jotting all this down. "No, our little friend left us a message," Sherlock answered coldly, pointing towards the wall. "That lamp by the desk, it was lit up during the night. During that hour which our victim was killed, this side of the room was the brightest. If the body was discovered at night this message would have been the first thing seen when a person entered the room. Now why would the killer turn off the lamp when he wanted his message to be seen? He wants a _specific person _to find it." "And that person being you," Anderson growled lividly.

* * *

"No…apparently this message is for…Lavinia," Sherlock spoke almost dazed, as his eyes scanned the message etched on the wall. "Lavinia," Lestrade repeated, looking up from his notepad. All eyes were on the new Detective Inspector, she hesitantly took a few steps forward towards the wall. Her face was now paled, there was this sickening feeling in her stomach but she did not dare clutch it. Her hazel eyes scanned the crudely written message etched on the wall. _A gift from me, to the new Detective Inspector. _

Lestrade gaped at his new aspiring new colleague, completely lost for words. "Now this doesn't mean Lavinia may know this person directly. I can tell you that our murderer is a male based on his egoistic message. He may be toying with her mind, seeing that she is new in the division. We can't rule either that this could be some form of revenge or this person may develop or already has developed stalking qualities…following Lavinia like some crazed fan," Sherlock reassured them, giving Lavinia a firm nod. John placed a hand on Lavinia's shoulder sympathetically. "Lavinia….is there anybody you can think of that could be holding a grudge against you," Lestrade asked delicately.

"No….I can't. I don't have anybody in mind. I've always stuck with the same friends….never really met or seen anybody else," Lavinia replied shakily. "Could be an ex-boyfriend," mused Sherlock. "No, I have had a few dates here and there. Nothing more than that….my studies and now work keeps me from having a steady relationship," she responded, clearly pondering hard on who would do such a thing. "What about a crazed admirer. One who would try to contact you endlessly? When you answered he would reply right back a minute after never longer. Of course…some of these crazed admirers harbor their feelings inside watching you from afar," noted Sherlock. Lavinia shook her head, her hazel eyes looking fearfully at every person in the room.

"Enough Lavinia. You can take the rest of the day off. We'll contact you if we need you again. If we get more evidence or suspects that sort of thing," dismissed Lestrade. Lavinia made her way towards the door, wanting to get out of this house to get some fresh air. The others followed behind, and the walk towards the front door was soundless. A breath of fresh air was inviting to Lavinia as she finally stepped outside. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes savoring the moment that she was finally able to get out of that horrid place.

* * *

A shot rings in her ears, a distant angry sound. She opens her eyes, reality sinking back in. She scans her surroundings, her fellow colleagues, forensics experts, and her new flat mates. The flashing blue lights of the police car continued blinking furiously. _BANG!_ Another shot rings, followed by another. "GET DOWN!" She's pushed down by Lestrade, who was now pulling out his own weapon. Sherlock and John who were still inside rush out. "What was that," shouted John. "No time just get down," screamed Lestrade, who was scanning the nearby high buildings that would provide a high vantage point.

Sherlock did not obey, he continued to stand his blue eyes shifting from places the shooter could hide. In the corner of her eye, Lavinia could spot a man completely garbed in black his face masked on top of a nearby building. His gun was aimed for Sherlock. "NO!" She leapt up forward, ramming into the dark haired consulting detective. They both fell to the ground as the other shot rang, it cracked as it hit the front door giving off a pinging sound…if Sherlock had not have moved it would have hit him directly on the forehead. Lavinia's breathing was ragged as she looked up at him.

She parted her lips slightly to speak, but no words could come out. It felt as if every breath she took could be her last…she was having difficulty breathing, her blood was racing in her veins. She winced as she could feel a stinging sensation on her leg and face….scratches from the fall on concrete no doubt. Sherlock was the one to finally speak. "Thank you….Lavinia," he muttered. He watched as a medic from the ambulance that had arrived nearby bend down to take her.

Wrapping a blanket around her, they escort her to the ambulance. Another medic gave him a weak smile. "She'll be fine, but in shock no doubt. Nobody was hurt thank goodness," he said, helping Sherlock up as well. He did not bother to thank or look at the medic, but his eyes remained on the hazel hair billowing in the wind. "Who are you," he murmured softly, so only he could hear. Could he have been wrong? No…he was never wrong. Perhaps he had missed something…..quite rare…but possible. Who was she? These recent chain of events had definitely sparked his interest. Sherlock watched her until she was out of his line of vision. All of this….. it was something more….it was something bigger…it was something different….and he was going to find out what '_it'_ exactly is.

* * *

"I- did -exactly- what -you -asked," the voice cracked. "No. You did not. I did not ask you to move in to that place. I did not ask you to bring him here. I did not ask you to befriend him. I did not ask you to protect him…he can clearly fend for himself," the voice went on seething with rage. "You are such a disappointment. All your life you've been trying to prove otherwise. You're nothing special. Everybody can read you imagine what the great Sherlock Holmes, can deduce of you from just a single glance. You've ruined _everything_. Everything I worked for. There's nothing useful or interesting about a failure. At least a traitor is interesting enough….this betrayal….oh this is now piquing my interest….if you want to play. We shall…let's play this little game," the voice spat into the phone. _Click._ The click was followed by ringing of a dead end on the other line. _Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring._

_**And there you have Chapter 4. I put a ton of action in this chapter, and sorry for the cliffhanger. I got an instant inspiration out of the blue, and I just had to post this chapter up. Oh Sherlock the mess you've made ;) Haha had to add some humor with the whole fingers in the cereal box. I forgot to give you guys the time which my story takes place. This story takes place somewhere around season two, and I remember somebody asked me about John's cane whether if he still needed it or not. I forgot that John doesn't have his cane in season two...sorry haven't watched the old episodes in awhile. Oh well, that's it for now. The support has been great, thanks guys! ~AshMercedes23**  
_


	5. You've Got A New Text

"How do you think _she_ knew?" John looked up his newspaper; those were the first words Sherlock had spoken since yesterday's incident. He spent the whole morning lying on the sofa, still clad in his usual blue sleeping robe. Settling himself back upright, placing both hands on his head Sherlock tousles his hair askew. "I've been sitting here all morning! Thinking! Trying! I've come up with many deductions on _how_ she could possibly done _it. _There's always something…," he shouted, his mind seemingly unhinged. John rolled his eyes, shifting over to cross his right leg. "She saved your life Sherlock. End of story. There's nothing to _deduce_. She was just doing her job as well as being a friend," he stated bluntly, speaking as if he was talking to a child.

"Friend?!" Sherlock stood straight up, snatching the paper away from John. "Look at me! She barely even knows me! She must have some motive! Let me ask you this! How was she able to spot out the shooter faster than my trained eyes?! Why did she not tell Lestrade what the shooter looked like?! It was quite possible that she knew the shooter! The shooter wasn't targeting her," roared Sherlock, reaching over to shake John on the shoulders. "You are spewing out nonsense Sherlock. Please don't tell me you're in shock too? I understand these events can be quite….traumatic," shivered John, recalling his experiences in Afghanistan.

Sherlock slumped back into the sofa, crossing his arms. "I would keep your voice down if I were you too. Lestrade believes Lavinia is in a delicate situation, he even gave her a sick day," he noted to the dark haired man, who was still giving him a cold calculating stare. "Delicate indeed," he muttered in response sarcastically. _Knock. Knock. Knock._ "John get the door," Sherlock barked, closing his eyes returning to his thinking pose. He slid out of his chair, and sauntered over towards the door opening it. Before his stood a slightly balding man, with russet hair. Dressed in a well tailored silk suit, pocketing his phone he addresses John. "John good to see you again, may I come in," he smiles brightly. "Of course."

Stepping aside, he allows the man to step inside the flat he shared with the consulting detective. "Sherlock wasn't answering my calls. Quite an urgent matter," he said quietly, possibly not wanting his brother to overhear. "Mycroft do enlighten me and tell me, since when did not answering your calls become a threat to national security," spoke another voice sardonically. "Not a day goes by where your face isn't splattered all over the telly or newspapers," Mycroft answered exasperated. He took a couple paces forward facing his younger sibling. "You've been shot." Sherlock looked up, his brow furrowing in annoyance. "Shot _at_. There's a difference. Learn it."

"Lavinia Crawford. Where is she," it seemed more of a command then a question. "What's it to you," Sherlock articulated lazily. "Because I would like to thank the person, who saved _your_ arse." His nostrils flared with rage, if another moment passed John could imagine him balling his hands into fists. "How's the diet coming along," solicited Sherlock, knowing how the questioned ticked off his elder brother. "It's going along just fine! I don't need your criticism," Mycroft roared. At that the room was silent, but eventually it was stirred when the sound of a door opening and shutting. Lavinia stepped into the living room, leaning her whole frame against the wall. "Who's this," she questioned faintly.

Mycroft's eyes widened, taking several paces forward he advances towards the girl. "You must be Lavinia Crawford. I'm-" "No need for introductions. This is my brother….Mycroft, who was just _leaving_," said Sherlock augmenting his voice. "Don't listen to him, he finds himself in a lot of tight spots," surged Mycroft his voice escalating in volume as well. Sherlock parted his lips slightly to speak, but he turned to the opposite side of the sofa his back turned to them. "You're behaving like a toddler. What would mum say," he admonished. "Will you two _just behave_ like adults," intervened John. _If we let this continue…World War III will begin. Mycroft will be assembling his army at the nearest government army base, while Sherlock and I will be running for our hides…only to have his wits to protect us…what an adrenaline rush that would give him. The again nothing could satisfy him…_

"Mycroft what a pleasant surprise! Sherlock you should have told me you had company!" Lavinia jumped slightly, turning around to only find Mrs. Hudson carrying a tray of freshly brewed tea. Rubbing her arm, she shivered. _He's not here. Relax. Get a hold of yourself, she thought reminding herself._ "Chilly isn't it Lavinia," mused Sherlock, taking note of her alarm. "Yes, it was much warmer in the bedroom," she nodded in agreement, clearing up her voice. "Oh dear, I hope you're not coming down with something Lavinia. First yesterday's disaster…and now this," piped Mrs. Hudson. She poured out a generous amount of tea handing it over to Lavinia. "A nice hot cup of tea should do the trick."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, rolling his sleeping robe into a cocoon to muffle out any sound from the outside. "Sherlock get up. It's noon. I'm sure Lestrade must have had an update on the case for you," sighed Mrs. Hudson in a tired voice. "No use trying. I've been trying to get him up all morning. I gave up when he threw his slipper at me," said John with a mouthful of food. "John I do recall I threw _a_ slipper. Slippers come in pairs. So I have another one to spare," threatened Sherlock his voice muffled. Mycroft crossed his arms, seating himself down across where his uncooperative brother lied. "Well then I'll just have to make myself comfortable. I have all day Sherlock, whenever you're ready," he said silkily with patience.

_Ding! _ Lavinia reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone. "It's Lestrade. He wants all of us down at Scotland Yard," she read the text, her brow furrowing in distress. "Tell him we'll be right there," ordered Sherlock getting up at an instant. Storming to his room the door closed with the _bang_. John groaned, setting his fork and knife down with a clatter. Lavinia bit her lip tentatively looking down at her fidgeting fingers, but none of the men present in the room seemed to notice her distress.

* * *

_Ring! Ring! _ "Bloody phone," grumbled Sally Donovan who was seated at her desk. The phones had been ringing nonstop since yesterday's shooting, and people were calling in leaving tips. Nevertheless some people were sincere however it was nothing Scotland Yard didn't know already, while others….were after their fifteen seconds of fame. Picking up the phone, placing it on her ear she answered. "Hello?" She nodded several times listening to the person on the other end. "We appreciate your help, sir. Thank you for calling in," she hung up with a bored monotone. "Anything useful," questioned a voice above her.

Looking up she spotted Anderson dressed in his office clothes rather than his usual blue forensics uniform, she shook her head her curls swaying from side to side. "Just another drunk calling in, I could tell right away from his voice. Pretty disoriented, best to disregard that tip. We don't need freak to figure that out for us," her lips twisting into a smile. Anderson smirked, handing her coffee mug over to her. Crossing his arms, he leans against the wall. "Well best enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts. Lestrade got a note this morning, and he's convinced it's from the shooter. He called the freak in. Any moment now," snarled Anderson distastefully.

"Too late," mumbled Sally, her face gave the impression she took a dose of unwanted medicine. Right on cue the great consulting detective strode through the door, his black woolen coat billowing behind him. His loyal sidekick was behind him, followed by Lavinia who gave them a shy smile. As the man they both detested approached them, he smiled. "Why if it isn't Sally and Anderson." "Move along freak," instructed Sally, her eyes piercing into his like daggers. "How are the knees coming along? Oooo looks like they've gotten worse. You should stop scrubbing Anderson's floors for awhile," stated Sherlock dryly, giving her a roguish wink. Her face turned into a white sheet, while Anderson stormed away cursing and swearing under his breath.

"You're here," nodded Lestrade, who was standing by the door. Sherlock sauntered towards Lestrade, his eyes shifting back and forth. A buzzing sound caught his attention and he stopped midway turning a back around towards John. In turn John turned around to Lavinia who was biting her lips nervously. "That's my phone," she explained, slowly reaching into her pocket. "Well aren't you going to answer it," challenged Sherlock expecting the girl to back down. She pulled her sleek black phone out pressing on the button that revealed her new text. _Look forward to seeing you soon my pet. Wouldn't want to keep you waiting would I? – R _

Sherlock registered the distress in her face reaching over to take the phone from her; she stifles a gasp as she slips it back into her pocket. "Who was that…," he demanded articulating on every word. Lestrade and John look on worriedly their attention focused on the tension between the two. "_Nobody." _Sherlock snorted. "It seemed like _somebody_." "When I mean nobody, I mean nobody who concerns to you _or_ to the case," she huffed, passing right by the consulting detective her heels clicking behind her. John frowned at Sherlock his brow furrowing in many creases as he did. "Sherlock….," he began. Blue eyes pierced back at him daring him to continue. Lestrade cleared his throat, gesturing the other two men to follow. Lavinia was already in his office seated in one of the guest chairs; Sherlock was the last to enter shutting the door behind him.

* * *

John found himself back at the flat with disgruntled detective several hours later. Sherlock was lying on the sofa again, his long slender fingers tracing the uneven features of the skull. Sticking his index finger into the eye socket, he traces the area of where an eye was once located. _That's the fifth time he's done that….I hope he's not imagining that he's poking out somebody's eye…a sociopath turning into a psychopath_, contemplated John. "I want _that _phone," he spoke finally. John sat up, flipping the page of his newspaper. "You can cut the act John. You've been staring at me for the past ten minutes, and besides even if you _were_ reading the newspaper you always start on the opinion section. To hone your skills for your own blog," grumbled Sherlock.

"No Sherlock. The last time you had my phone you sent an offensive text to my sister…just for the fun of it," John said firmly denying him access to his phone. Sherlock smirked at the memory fondly…oh it was rather amusing…to him anyway. "I don't mean your phone John. I mean Lavinia's….," he rolled his eyes; he had hoped John could have caught on faster. John tossed the newspaper aside, crossing his arms. "You're going to try to steal her phone," he asked dishearteningly, already knowing the answer. "Well I could always ask but I don't think she'll just _hand_ it over to me." The sarcasm of his words only made John's blood boil. "She's entitled to her privacy Sherlock. That text could have been something trivial but you made matters worse by assuming otherwise."

Sherlock bolted up from the sofa, waving his arms at John. "And what if it wasn't! _Could have been_ isn't good enough for me. I have to be certain! It was quite obvious she was expecting that text. It was obvious that she was indignant of the contents of that text," he roared. John opened his mouth to speak however Sherlock refused to listen, lying back down in the opposite direction facing away from his flatmate. John sighed heavily knowing that it was best to leave him be. His eyes shifted towards the direction of his room, the room he allowed Lavinia to borrow. Sherlock's doubts were beginning to dawn upon him to. _Who is this girl? Who are they sharing their flat with exactly?_ Shaking his head he returned to his newspaper, the last thing he needed was to help Sherlock plot in stealing that phone.

* * *

Lavinia lied huddled in the sheets in the bed. She was shivering uncontrollably. It wasn't from the cold. Her sobs wracked her body shaking the bed as well in the process. If only she had known earlier months before. Oh to be so naïve. Her father had always told her to be careful…to take care of herself. Why hadn't she turned back when she had found out? She had dragged herself to the point of no return. The phone vibrated on the table, moving a few millimeters as it did. Reaching over she read the message on the bright screen that illuminated in the dark room. _I remember today like it was just yesterday. Oh how time flies can you believe it has been already a year? Sleep well my pet. –R _

She wanted to scream in frustration and throw her phone against the wall. Even if she got a new phone he would somehow get her number again. He would find her….he would always find her. Residing with the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes wasn't exactly the best idea to blend in. To forget. Her father had suggested her to find somewhere safe to live to get away from it all. They weren't kidding when they said the past always came back to haunt you. She shivered again, closing her eyes. It in fact did feel like as if it was just yesterday, her mind took her back to one year earlier…when she was just finishing up school.

* * *

_The corridors were empty in the huge university. She was going to be late for class; she was located at the south turret while her next class was in the north. She had lost track of time among all the books in the school's enormous library, most of her friends had teased her that she had already read half of the school's vast collection of books. She decided the run to her next class, there was nobody else in the hallway she would have to be quick about it not to interrupt other classes in session. She would make sure to avoid Mr. Darthridge's door he could get quite nasty when he caught you running down the corridors…especially when late for class. _

_She gasped as she ran past the blurring surroundings, and as she hit something…not just something…someone. She closed her eyes praying that it wasn't one of the professors...or worse the headmaster. A friendly chuckle was given instead, opening her eyes the man she had run into was about her age. He knelt down to help her collect her fallen textbooks. "Late for class are we? Well…I can show you a short cut. I presume you're heading towards the north turret," he asks amused, handing back her books. She nods, the blush on her cheeks spreading. "Thank you," she whispers. He runs his fingers through his hair. "No trouble at all. I use to lose track of time all the time. Eventually I found a shortcut. _

_She follows him side by side and they converse politely about classes. He was charming his words flowing on with such ease. He was dressed immaculately in the school's uniform, but he added some flair of his own…Westwood. "Well here we are. With a minute to spare he grinned, the students were filing into the lecture hall. "Thank you….so much. What's your name," she breathed catching her breath. "Richard….Richard Brook. We have class together right now sit next to me won't you Lavinia," he grinned gesturing towards the door. Her eyes widened. "Wait how do you know my name?" He winked and leaned in closer his lips almost touching her ear. "I know a pretty girl when I see one." _

_**Sorry for such a long waiting period for the next update. School has been keeping me busy. Well now that the mystery stalker has been revealed...I promise there's more to come. Lavinia has more history behind her...that will come back to haunt her. Sherlock will begin to warm up to her, and I didn't make him tease John this chapter don't want to make him look like a bully ;). Comments and suggestions are welcomed. ~AshMercedes23**  
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